Sidewalk
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There is a place
where the sidewalk ends
and before the street begins,
and there the grass grows
soft and white,
and there the sun burns
crimson bright,
and there the moon-bird
rests from his flight
to cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place
where the smoke blows black
and the dark street winds
and bends.
Past the pits
where the asphalt flowers grow
we shall walk with a walk
that is measured and slow
and watch where
the chalk-white arrows go
to the place
where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk
that is measured and slow,
and we'll go
where the chalk-white arrows go,
for the children, they mark,
and the children, they know,
the place
where the sidewalk ends.
―Shel Silverstein
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Note: Discretion and self-care advised in exploring some of the following.
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Poem: On this Very Street in Belgrade
Poem: Conversation in Isolation